


Desire

by Phtho_nos



Series: Are you listening? [3]
Category: Persona 5
Genre: Angst, Baby Boy, Depression, Gen, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, References to Depression, Self-Harm, Suicidal Thoughts, blood n’ stuff, no baby no, why do I make him suffer you ask? Because anything that I come into contact with suffers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-08
Updated: 2019-07-08
Packaged: 2020-06-24 21:03:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19731745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Phtho_nos/pseuds/Phtho_nos
Summary: noun/verb1. a strong feeling of wanting to have something or wishing for something to happen.synonyms: wish, want, crave.[A side story from the “Are you listening?” series]





	Desire

It was nights like these; where the wind howled low and menacing outside, the wooden beams shook and shuddered under its wrath, and the moon plastered high in the sky. 

It was those nights that felt so long, so painfully slow, that he felt time almost stop.

He was alone and slick sweat claimed its place on his clothes, his hair sticking to his forehead, and glasses long since discarded. 

It was cold, but the cold was none but a memory in this situation. 

The loudest sound heard was his own heartbeat; thumping, throbbing, ebbing away and mixing with the growls of the air outside, he felt faint and dehydrated, but that was of little matter to him. 

Sat on the dusty, creaky floor, he leaned against his bed, eyes, cold and lifeless and dull, wandering aimlessly around the room as if trying to find meaning, trying to find relevance. 

He was a lost cause, he thought, he was already trapped at the bottom of a pit of despair and desperation.

He simply thought, thinking was all he did most days by then, though it was dangerous to think. If he thought too hard, he knew he wouldn’t come back. 

No matter, he thought, the noose was already tightened around his neck by then. 

In one hand a razor had claimed its place, settled, ready to cause harm. The harm to be caused would only be known to himself, however. 

Silver reflected off the blade, a reflection of his past. A reminder that after this he couldn’t go back. He had accepted that.

His eyes finally met with the tool, as he wasn’t thinking anymore. 

All thoughts were abandoned by now and the only thing his mind could grasp was the cold metal between his fingers, the loud thumping of his heartbeat in his ears, and the hitch in his breathing. 

He looked upon the blade, and its gaze pierced him right back. 

It wasn’t an uncommon situation. He’d found himself like this before, razor in hand and brain numb. It was almost routine by then, and he was unsure whether that was a good thing or not. 

The pain had never arrived, however, as he found himself too much of a coward to bring it. 

Once, when he was a little younger, he was found in a bathroom stall at school, blade in hand and eyes as steel grey as usual as another student was stricken still with disgust, worry and fear.

He was prescribed medication after that, and for a short while, he actually complied in taking them.

It didn’t make a difference either way.

And here he was, back to that one place he always was, trapped in his mind with shackles too cold and air too hot and he was burning and freezing and choking and gasping and all he could feel was pain pain pain painpainpainpainpainpain. 

He felt something cold drip down his arm, thinking for a moment that he was crying, but a sharp pain in his arm trashed that thought.

He looked down to find in his view a singular straight, neat red line, razor hovering shakily above it. 

He’d done it. 

He gazed, fascinated, as the blood slowed in its flowing down his arm. He’d thought it would be warm, like inside his body, but no. Instead it was cold and uncomfortable and made a shiver run down his spine. 

The cold was like the winter air around him, unwelcoming and bitter and sickening. He didn’t know whether what he felt tightening in his chest was dread or anxiety or guilt or absolute euphoria. 

He didn’t mind it though, whatever it was.

He found the blade in his skin again, and again and again and again, but drew bored when the lines simply sat still, no red or cold or anything to excite him.

He put his index finger on one side of a cut, and his thumb on the other side; he drew the cut apart, further and further until he could see red beginning to pool inside. 

He pushed the sides back together then, so the blood would have to escape through the top, forming little spheres of red (oh so beautiful, he thought).

Tantalised, he did this to each little cut he had made, over and over and he was getting excited because he couldn’t breathe and his vision was getting clouded and his heart was so loud (too loud, he thought, he’d have to stop that soon). 

When the red bubbles would grow too heavy and slip down his arm, he would catch them on a piece of paper (I will make a beautiful painting, he vowed, Yusuke will love it). 

He loved the red. He loved the blade. He didn’t do it because he was depressed or anything. He had friends and new family and an amazing life. No, he wasn’t depressed. He just wanted something new. 

He was confident now, unlike when he was younger, and could live with what he had done.

He wouldn’t trade that feeling for anything, that feeling of compassion, of wholeness, like the puzzle of his life had finally been completed. 

He wrapped his arm in bandages when the blood stopped flowing. He left the bloody paper on his desk and slipped off to sleep, heart beating louder than ever and a soft smile on his face. 

The next day, he kept the razor in his pocket when he went to school, bloodied paper in the inside breast pocket of his blazer; and when he did it again in the bathroom stall, he didn’t get caught, he didn’t get put on drugs, and he didn’t regret not having done it.

Even if he was exposed for doing it, he would never stop. It wasn’t because he was depressed, no. And it wasn’t because he wanted to die, no. He just wanted. 

And what sin is there greater than desire?

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry I’ve been away for so long. Promise I’ll write more when the summer holidays come around. 
> 
> Anywho, I’ve wanted to write something like this for a while as it links closely with my own experiences. I feel that AkiRen is someone who is so strong because he’s been through so much but also that deep down he’s scared just like every other human being, he just needs to be reminded that he’s not on his own.
> 
> In conclusion, this is kinda a vent/blast to the past for me, hope y’all enjoyed!!


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